Wizard: I Have a Cultivation System-Chapter 72: The 40th Drop of Holy Water

DRIP.

A drop of water landed between Sylvan’s eyebrows. The bone-chilling cold jolted him from his stupor.

He snapped his eyes open, only to find himself tightly bound with coarse hemp ropes to a hardwood bed, inside a dry cave.

The cave was dimly lit, with only two torches stuck to the rock wall providing any light.

To his surprise, the cave wasn’t cold. Instead, waves of warmth emanated from some unseen source, keeping his thin indoor clothes at a comfortable temperature, as if he were still in his own bedroom.

The only downside was that his head was fixed in place by a special leather strap, rendering it completely immobile.

Directly above his line of sight hung a ceramic water jug. A small hole had been made in its base, from which water droplets fell at a slow, steady rhythm.

DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. Each one landed squarely between his eyebrows.

Sylvan was baffled. ’What is the meaning of this?’

"Someone! Let me go!"

He struggled and shouted, deliberately putting on a display of panic, while his mind raced calmly. ’To abduct me from the now well-guarded Baron’s Castle... they must have the strength of a Knight, at least.’

’So what?’

’I’ve maneuvered my way around pressure from both Viscount Hans and the Church Court. Why would I fear some kidnapper who doesn’t even dare to show their face?’

"Who are you? Are you with Viscount Hans? The Church Court? What do you want? Gold Coins? Power? I can give you anything!"

Sylvan continued to shout, his tone intentionally laced with fear.

This was all an expedient measure. Over the years, he had learned how to swallow his pride for the time being.

’Just let me get out of here,’ he vowed silently, ’and I’ll make this audacious bastard pay.’

However, besides his own voice, the only sound in the cave was the incessant dripping. No one appeared.

Sylvan frowned.

"Let’s talk! What’s the point of these water drops? We can negotiate!"

DRIP.

Still, no one responded.

The drops fell, neither fast nor slow, each one landing precisely between his eyebrows.

Sylvan snorted. ’Fine. I might as well take this opportunity to get some rest.’

He had drunk a lot at the banquet tonight and was genuinely tired.

’The dripping is a little annoying, but not enough to stop me from taking a nap.’

’Besides, the cave is warm and comfortable. If it were a cold cave, then it might be a different story.’

Sylvan closed his eyes, trying to ignore the rhythmic dripping.

But he soon discovered that things were not nearly as simple as he had thought.

Every time he was about to fall asleep, a cold drop of water would startle him awake.

He immediately changed his approach, deciding to analyze the situation to tire himself out before trying to rest again.

But the dripping always broke his train of thought, making it impossible to concentrate.

Worse, he began to involuntarily anticipate the next drop, and this anticipation slowly became a form of torture.

DRIP.

The bead of water trickled down from between his eyebrows, pulled by gravity, sliding past his temples and across his forehead.

Sylvan started to feel irritated.

He tried to move his head to avoid the drops, but the strap held him so firmly that even this simple action was impossible.

This feeling of powerlessness made him even more agitated, but it also made him feel a true sense of unease for the first time.

Time crawled by in the darkness. Gradually, he lost all concept of it.

DRIP.

When another drop landed between Sylvan’s eyebrows, his face twisted into a snarl. "Let me go!" he suddenly roared. "You despicable, shameless commoner!"

He thrashed wildly, the bed frame shaking violently on the stone floor, emitting a harsh SCREEECH as it scraped against the ground.

"I’ll tear you to pieces! I’ll make your family slaves for generations! I’ll throw you into the filthiest dungeon and let rats gnaw on your flesh and blood!"

DRIP.

The only response to his roars in the cave was the sound of dripping water.

CREAK, CREAK!

Sylvan struggled with all his might. Veins bulged on his neck and his Adam’s apple bobbed violently, but he remained tightly bound.

The coarse hemp ropes cut deep into his wrists, and blood trickled slowly down the cords.

This futile resistance only deepened his rage, making him roar like a trapped beast.

"Do you hear me? I command you to show yourself at once!"

"Do you have any idea what happens to someone who tortures a nobleman, a high and mighty Baron? Your head will be mounted on the city walls for all to see! Your family will be sold to the mines! I’ll make you wish for death, but you won’t be able to die!"

DRIP.

Still only the sound of dripping water.

Sylvan began to slam his head back against the headboard, but the strap restricted his movements so much that even this small release was a fantasy.

His breathing grew heavy and his chest heaved violently. Sweat soaked his thin indoor clothes.

Rage burned through his sanity like a fire, only to be slowly extinguished by the dripping sound.

"Who... who are you?" His tone began to waver, his voice trembling involuntarily. "Were you sent by Viscount Hans? Or the Church Court? We can talk... I already said, what do you want? A title? A fief? I can give you anything..."

DRIP.

His concept of time had already blurred.

Fear began to spread in the darkness.

This slow, relentless mental torture was a thousand times more terrifying than any physical pain.

And the warm cave, his body bound to the bed, his head restrained—it all reminded Sylvan that this was a meticulously designed punishment.

He began to realize his captor didn’t want a ransom. They wanted to completely shatter his will.

This realization made him panic, it made him furious, but more than anything, it filled him with a bone-deep terror.

The thought of having to spend countless days and nights listening to that eternal dripping filled Sylvan with a suffocating dread.

"Please... spare me..." Despair finally shattered the last of Sylvan’s dignity. Tears and snot mixed with the water on his face as they streamed down. "Everything I said before was just talk! I’m the bastard who deserves to be torn to pieces! I’m the animal who should be chopped up and fed to the dogs! I’m just a fool who doesn’t know his place, I deserve to be thrown into the filthiest dungeon for the rats to gnaw on... I mean it, I’m not lying, I’ll agree to anything... Gold Coins, a fief, whatever you want, I’ll give it to you... Just please, let me go..."

His voice grew weaker and weaker, eventually trailing off into broken sobs.

In that moment, he was no longer the high and mighty future Baron Duval, but just a pathetic man consumed by fear and despair.

Just like the pathetic people in New Wood Town this past winter, who were also consumed by cold and despair.

DRIP.

However, the dripping continued without any response.

Just as he finally broke completely, his tears run dry and his voice hoarse, his eyes vacant and numb, a shadow slowly fell over his body.

It was a middle-aged man with brown hair, an unremarkable face, an unremarkable height, and an unremarkable build.

Perhaps the only feature that could be called distinctive was his terrifyingly calm eyes.

"Now," Murphy’s voice was low, "are you ready to be obedient?"

A faint glimmer of light finally appeared in Sylvan’s vacant, numb eyes, like a drowning man spotting a final straw.

Unable to muster any acting, any negotiation, any threats, he could only nod frantically. "I’ll listen! I’ll listen to anything!"

Murphy untied the water jug and wiped the water from his face with a linen cloth.

This simple gesture made Sylvan burst into tears.

"Remember this feeling," Murphy said. "If you don’t want to experience it again, then from now on, you will answer whatever I ask."